


Do you come here often?

by solrosan



Series: Asexuality [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Based on a Tumblr Post, Gay Bar, Gen, Past Drug Use, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:29:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8413795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: Based on grumpybijohn's post:imagine john and sherlock going to a gay bar for a case and the bartender/manager recognizes sherlock and is all like “sherlock!! I haven’t seen you in years! how are you? is this your boyfriend?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly brushed up version of the ficlet I wrote on Tumblr.

Sherlock loosened his scarf and folded his Belstaff over his arm as they made their way through the club. The temperature outside only barely justified him wearing the coat at this time of year, and having it inside a place like this was not even to think about. If Sherlock remembered correctly it was another hour or two until peak time, but it was already crowded, and the music was way too loud to encourage anything other than drinking and dancing. (Though Sherlock could recall at least a couple of other activities this place was suited for.) 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder; John was half a step behind him, also with jacket in his hand by now. Sherlock had expected him to be at least a little bothered, but he seemed completely unfazed by being seen entering a gay club with another man. Sure, they were on a case, but that hadn’t stopped John from protesting and establishing his heterosexuality before. Perhaps it was because there were no other straight people around for him to protect his image in front of. Perhaps it was because the clientele was at least 20 years younger than they were, making them clearly out of place anyway. 

Whatever the reason, Sherlock decided to not dwell on it right now because they had a job to do, and because _he_ was uncomfortable being here. It was seventeen years since he had been here last, but this club, though renovated (and with a completely different kind of kind of music), was still the same place, and oh, did he have memory gaps from here… Normally, it was the gaps which bothered him the most, but right now it was the things he remembered that put him on the edge.

They made their way to the bar in the back room, where the music wasn’t quite as loud and there was much less of a crowd. Sherlock stopped for a moment, because this part of the club looked almost exactly as it had two decades ago. There were still lots of chairs and tables (and corners), but the pillows had luckily been upgraded to sofas and big armchairs. Yet Sherlock imagined they were used for the same activities. His insides cringed, and he pushed the thought away.

John walked past him to the bar, and when Sherlock got there, John was signing a receipt for two beers. 

Sherlock frowned. “We’re on a case.”

“We’re in a bar.”

“We’re not undercover.”

John just smirked at him, pushing the receipt and pen towards the bartender. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’d be— Sherlock, isn’t it?” the man behind the bar said as he took the receipt.

Sherlock turned to him. 

“It is!” said the bartender – early forties, divorced yet not single, guitar player, owned a reptile and… Sherlock couldn’t retrieve a single memory of him. 

For a moment, he felt completely taken aback. Seeing how the patrons were as young these days as when he himself had frequented the club, he’d thought the turnover of the staff have been the same, and he really hadn’t expected to be recognised. 

He ignored John’s wide eyed stare, and instead picked up his beer. “Yes.”

“Holly Hell! It’s been ages!” the man went on. “I honestly, you know, a lot of us thought you stopped coming because you were dead.”

AIDS, cocaine, or suicide? Sherlock almost asked. He only refrained from it because John shifted next to him, clearly uneasy by the other man’s statement. The bartender (What on earth was his name? Sherlock felt he had to have known it at some point.) didn’t seem to notice.

“And this’s your boyfriend?”

“Husband,” John said, in the very same voice he usually used to tell people they were Not A Couple! and now it was Sherlock’s turn to look at John in surprise. 

“Oh, congrats! Showing him where you sowed all that wild oats, are you, Sherlock?”

“No, actually, we’re looking for this man,” said John, quickly pulling out a photograph from his wallet to show the man behind the bar. 

Sherlock turned his back to them, and was suddenly very glad for the beer.

* * *

Sherlock put his coat and scarf on again as they walked from the club. A queue had started to form outside. John rubbed his left ear, and put on his jacket as well.

“Tinnitus?” Sherlock asked.

John’s only response to that was a grimace.

“About tonight,” Sherlock started, hands in his pockets, as they had walked about two streets from the club and Sherlock felt he’d had time to process the non-case related parts of the evening.

John shook his head. “You don’t have to explain.”

Sherlock frowned; he had expected at least some questions about their encounter at the bar. If nothing else, _he_ had questions about John’s insistence that they were married. 

“As you said, we’re on a case,” said John. “You don’t have to; we can take it later.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said after a moment’s hesitation.

* * *

“Ta,” John mumbled, briefly looking up from his laptop where he was typing up their latest case, when Sherlock put down a cup of tea next to him. The case had been interesting (sibling feud, something that spoke to both of them) but if Sherlock knew John as well as he thought he did, John wouldn’t post it. Too many personal elements. 

Sherlock remained standing, absently reading what John had written so far over his shoulder.

“Why did you pretend to be my husband at Secret Garden?” he asked.

“Hm.” John saved his writing and turned his attention to Sherlock. “He thought you were dead.”

“How’s that relevant?”

“I… don’t really know, to be honest.”

“I easily could have been.” 

“I know,” said John, very matter-of-fact. “Maybe that’s why I said it.”

“It doesn’t matter what the bartender thinks, or thought. I don’t remember ever meeting him before, because I was always high as a five storey building when I went there. I think the other night was the only time I’ve ever been there sober.”

“That bad even, hu?”

Sherlock smiled briefly. “If you think I mistreat my body now, you should have seen me back then.”

“I think I’m glad I didn’t.” John made a face. “How was it being back there?”

“Surprisingly intense.”

“Do you need— Have you got any—“ John paused, inhaled, and started again. “Can I help?”

It took a moment for Sherlock to understand what John was talking about, but when he did, he shook his head.

“I never went there to get drugs,” he said. “I went there to have sex, and I needed to be high for that. That’s all.”

John blinked. “You kept going there to have sex, even though you had to shot up first? Why? Sherlock, that’s… Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

John’s shoulders dropped, and he smiled. “Good.” 

Sherlock nodded, relieved that John had dropped the subject. He sat down in his chair, and picked up an old copy of The BMJ. John went back to his writing.

“I didn’t spread that much ‘wild oats’, by the way,” Sherlock said after a while, not looking up from the journal. “As far as I can recall, I was mostly on my knees.”

John, who had just put the mug to his mouth, sprayed tea over entire laptop screen.


End file.
